Enola Holmes: Brother Dear
by songdreamer2016
Summary: Enola Holmes has never seen her brothers after her father's funeral ten years prior. When her mother disappears, she is forced to call on them, summoning Mycroft (the British Government) and Sherlock (the world's only Consulting Detective). But when they cannot locate her mother, she strikes out on her own, clinging to what little her mother left behind.
1. Chapter 1 - Family Business

**SEPTEMBER**

The world's only consulting detective paced the floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. It was well past midnight and John was in his bedroom, asleep, but Sherlock's mind refused to quiet, recently upturned by a new case. Retracing the same strip of floor for the upteenth time, the detective gazed into the distance, grey-green eyes hazy and unfocused as he puzzled through the evidence he had gathered.

When no conclusion came to mind, Sherlock frowned intensely and reached for his violin. Facing the window, he held the instrument loosely in his hands, plucking the strings in random sequences as he went over the facts again.

After setting the violin onto his shoulder, Sherlock grabbed his bow and drew it over the instrument, drawing out a soft note. He continued to finger a slow tune, gaze pinpointed far away as he pondered the possibilities. Outside the window, Baker Street was quiet; a half-moon hung in the sky, beaming light down on the occasional cab and drunken loiterer.

The detective seemed to extrude an otherworldly aura as the melody reverberated throughout the room, cheekbones set in sharp relief against his face by the pale light. He was in his nightclothes, wearing only his blue dressing-gown as protection against the cool fall night. Undeterred, he played on, looking for patterns in the evidence as the bow drew across well-worn strings.

* * *

Daybreak found Sherlock on the horizontally across the sofa, dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. His fingers were steepled under his chin, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him as he continued to ponder the case.

Sherlock was jerked out of his thoughtful reverie by a text alert from his phone. He picked it up, unlocking it to discover a text from Mycroft.

_Check your email. - M_

Rolling his eyes, the detective got up from his position on the sofa and slid into the chair in front of his desk. He flipped open his laptop and tapped at the trackpad, fingers drumming impatiently as he waited for the computer to load. When the screen finally lit up, Sherlock opened up his Internet browser and accessed his email account.

There was only a single email in his inbox, with no subject; it was dated to have been sent yesterday, and the sender was an_ E. Holmes_.

Sherlock frowned at the name. _E. Holmes...?_ His brow stayed furrowed for another two seconds before the proverbial lightbulb went off in his head. _Ah. Enola._ He wrinkled his nose as he rifled through his head for a picture of her, but he could not find one. Then again, it had been several years since he had seen her. How long had it been, nine, ten years? It had been a long time, and he had been... preoccupied with other things during that period.

The detective's expression darkened slightly as his mind replayed memories from a decade ago - memories that he could not delete. Shaking himself out of the reverie, Sherlock turned his attention back towards the computer and opened the email. His eyes widened at the first line.

_Mum's missing._

Clasping his hands together, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. _Mum is missing? This is an... interesting development_. He took a deep breath to steady himself and refocused on the email.

_She told me and the Lanes that she was going out for a walk yesterday, and said to start tea without her. We did, but when it came time for dinner, she hadn't returned yet. At first we thought she had just forgotten about the time (as she usually does) but it was getting dark, and she still hadn't come home. We called her mobile only to find it on the telephone table, next to her car keys. No one at Ferndell has seen her around - and the security cameras are blank._

_I know you two are busy, but please, help. I'm worried - Mum's not at her prime age, and I keep imagining her wandering around by herself, lost._

_Please contact me as soon as possible._

_Your sister,  
__Enola_

At reaching the end of the missive, Sherlock burst out of the chair, headed towards his coat and scarf. On the way, he picked up his phone; unlocking it, he speed-dialed Mycroft. With one hand, he pulled on his coat and scarf, all the while impatiently listening to the dial tone. When his brother picked up, Sherlock asked, "Where are you?"

_"Downstairs, in the car. Do hurry."_

"Punctual as usual," retorted Sherlock as he bounded down the stairs. "I'll be there in a moment." Passing Mrs Hudson, he stopped and said, "Mrs Hudson - tell John I'll be gone for a day or two."

"Oh dear," said the landlady. "Is it a case?"

"No, Mrs Hudson, it's family business!" he yelled over his shoulder as he strode out the door of 221B Baker Street. His step didn't falter as Mycroft's signature black car came to a stop in front, opening the car door and ducking in with one seamless movement.

"What did you find?" asked Sherlock, not bothering to greet the man beside him.

The man in question sighed heavily. "Exactly as stated in the email. No one saw her leave the grounds, and she does not appear in any of the security cameras." Mycroft frowned, forehead wrinkling in a familiar way. "Even the ones I have access to."

"That is an anomaly," murmured Sherlock. "So what happened? Has she been kidnapped?"

"There is no ransom note as of yet. We lack enough data to draw valid conclusions," replied Mycroft. "Best we wait to get there."

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "Have you told her we're on our way?"

"I told her that we'd be arriving on the five o'clock train."

"Hm," noted Sherlock. The two men were silent for the rest of the ride, each thinking his own thoughts.

* * *

**Author's Note:  
Hi again! So, as you can see, I've been dragged into the fandom that is BBC Sherlock... only I've added something else to it. If you couldn't tell, yes, Sherlock has a sister. I'm taking the character Enola Holmes from Nancy Springer's ****_Enola Holmes Mysteries_****. (Go read the books - I don't think you'll regret it). Stick around if you enjoyed ****_Sherlock_**** - I'll be doing my best to canonize my chapters. And if you're an Enola Holmes fan, welcome! This story is my tribute to all the people who wish Enola appeared on ****_Sherlock_****.  
For those waiting for another chapter of ****_So Not Feeling the Aster_**** - I regret to tell you that the story is under indefinite hiatus. When I first wrote it I didn't really think through the plot, and now the story is gaping with holes - that, and my attention is captured by something else. So it'll be a ****_really long time_**** before I update - either that or I might just delete the story. If you were looking foward to reading more, I apologize deeply - I enjoyed writing it too.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from _Sherlock_ or _The Enola Holmes Mysteries_.


	2. Chapter 2 - Meeting Enola

**THREE HOURS LATER**

The two brothers stood on the pavement outside the station, coats bundled closely against the cool fall air. The three-hour train ride had not been uncomfortable, due to Mycroft's influence, but there wasn't much you could do on a cramped train compartment with (to Sherlock) your archenemy sitting on the seat across.

"Where is she?" muttered said archenemy, ever-present umbrella open against the slight sprinkling of rain. "I distinctly told her the five o'clock train."

"Have a little faith, brother," said Sherlock, not bothered at the least by the rain. "How old is she, fourteen?"

"Fifteen as of yesterday," came the reply. "The 'tea' she mentioned - it was her birthday tea."

"Ah," Sherlock murmured, uncertain of what to make of that fact. He chased away the uncertainty with a snort. "I see Mum continued with the birthday teas."

"Indeed," Mycroft said wryly. "I believe the last one was on your tenth, before you declared them 'childish' and refused to have another one."

"They _were_ childish," Sherlock replied peevishly, glaring at his brother. "All the guests were a bore, and Mum always insisted on inviting everyone in my class, including that _wretched_ Frank What's-his-name-"

"Disregarding the fact that you _yourself_ were the source of most of the problems," smoothly cut in Mycroft, a faint smile lingering at the edges of his mouth as he dared to think of older, happier times. A brief moment later, the smile vanished, and in its place was the man's usual thin-lipped line. "His name was Frank Stewart, by the way."

Sherlock noticed the switch, but only muttered, "Details," and turned away, choosing instead to send a cursory glance over the area. _Nothing has changed much since we were last here_, he decided, taking in the familiar sight of the worn cobblestones and evening traffic. _Perhaps a new sign or two, but relatively the same_. His eyes wandered over the populace – a couple hand in hand, with their heads close together as they ambled towards the coffee shop around the corner (_newlyweds_), a harassed-looking woman hurrying in the opposite direction with a phone held to one ear and a suitcase dragging haphazardly behind her (_late for her train_), a tall, hesitant figure with a bicycle that seemed to be gathering up the courage to do something (_gender hard to determine, probably meeting someone_), and the occasional glances and whispers from old-timers who weren't used to new faces –

The detective's observations were cut off by a female voice. "Mr Holmes and, er, Mr Holmes?" Turning in surprise, Sherlock and Mycroft stared at the speaker.

It was the tall figure with the bicycle (_ah, so it's a _girl) who had addressed them. The girl was thin, and had no major developments to indicate her age (one of the reasons Sherlock had been unsure of her gender). She looked like a rather tall, skinny beanpole with dark brown hair - hair that was gathered into a messy ponytail, with a few wisps curling around her face. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, with a pair of ratty trainers on her feet, she rather looked like a wandering vagrant; only the condition of her clothes, well-worn as they were, suggested that she was well-to-do. The girl handled the bicycle with the air of someone who knew how to ride it; indeed, its tires were virtually caked with mud. A hat and scarf sat in the wire basket, heaped into a slightly dirty and messy pile. Her gray-green eyes were guarded, tinged with slight wariness and apprehension, set in a long, oval face with sharp cheekbones. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, gaze flickering from both men to her shoes.

"Yes?" said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

The girl stopped worrying her teeth, and took a deep breath, saying, "You asked me to meet you here."

Comprehension dawned, and Sherlock exclaimed, "Enola?" A sound like a bad echo made him realize that he and Mycroft had spoken at the same time.

Ignoring the fleeting irritation that came with being in unison with Mycroft, Sherlock remarked, "It would have been easier to send a cab."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's curt remark and let out another long-suffering sigh. "Pardon our rudeness, Enola," he said, smiling down at his sister. "I hope you're doing well?"

"As well as possible, I suppose," she replied faintly, slightly taken aback at Sherlock's blunt comment.

"Good," Mycroft said. He paused, taking in Enola and her current state. The girl fiddled with her hands under his gaze, twisting and untwisting her fingers.

After a moment a corner of the man's mouth turned up again in a rare half-smile. "I should have known it was you," he mused. "You look exactly like Sherlock at that age."

Both younger siblings turned to look at the eldest, identical looks of surprise on their faces – Sherlock's at the sheer _sentiment_ of that statement alone, and Enola's at the strangeness of the comparison mentioned.

For a millisecond Mycroft seemed to be lost in his memories, eyes gazing beyond, not at, Enola. Sherlock thought he saw a brief hint of sadness cross the older man's face, but Mycroft's expression was as smooth and expressionless like usual before he could confirm it.

The British Government coughed again, clearing his throat. "That aside, Enola," he began, all hints of emotion gone from his voice. "What are you doing here alone, on a bicycle? Ferndell's at least two miles from the station."

His sister blinked, then said, rather absently, "Oh – I guess I could have called for a cab, but I was in a hurry, so…"

"That is no excuse, Enola," chided Mycroft. "You're a young woman now – you can't go gallivanting out in the countryside on your bicycle. You should have just sent the chauffeur to pick us up." He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. "You should probably call him now – it seems like the rain is about to pour."

Enola's face turned puzzled. "Chauffeur? We haven't had a chauffeur in years."

At that Mycroft's forehead wrinkled into a bemused scowl. "Whatever do you mean, Enola? Of course you have a chauffeur! I've been paying Jonathan Edwards, your chauffeur, a monthly payment for at least five years now. Do us a favor and call him before the rain starts to pour."

"I don't understand," said the girl, brow drawn down in a way that was reminiscent of Sherlock.

Exasperated, Mycroft turned to lecture her, but Sherlock interrupted, saying, "Do leave her alone, Mycroft. As you can tell, her head, in proportion to her body, is rather small. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a limited cranial capability to remember trivial matters such as the existence of a chauffeur." He turned away to scan for a cab, completely missing the brief surprise and hurt that crossed Enola's face. Mycroft failed to notice as well, letting out a long sigh as Sherlock raised an arm, calling, "Taxi!" A cab across the street swerved and made a swift U-turn, headed towards the group.

"Come along," the detective said over his shoulder.

"But - what about my bicycle?" questioned Enola.

"Leave your bicycle here - we can send Dick for it later." Sherlock paused, frowning. "It is still Dick, I'm to assume?"

"Yes," stammered Enola, still confused over the chauffeur. "He came back from uni to help Mr and Mrs Lane about the house."

"Dull," intoned Sherlock as the cab stopped where they were standing.

"I don't know what Mum was thinking, letting that simpleton come back," Mycroft sighed with a grudgingly _sentimental_ tone of voice as he folded his umbrella and shook the excess rainwater off. "Her and her humanitarian values."

Sherlock gave a snort. "Perhaps she's gone over entirely to the humanitarian effort," he said snidely. The detective had never understood his mother's passion for humanitarian rights. Opening the cab door, Sherlock turned and raised a questioning eyebrow at Enola. "Well, sister? Did you ever know what Mum was thinking?"

Ready to respond, Enola opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Scowling, she said, "I never knew what she was thinking." The girl blinked. "I don't even know where she's gone." With that, something in her face crumbled, and the fifteen-year-old promptly burst into tears.

* * *

**AN: Hey people! I'm back, and with a new chapter... So yeah, I'm on a roll with this one.  
Just for clarification, if anyone needs it - I'm trying to find a good balance between the TV series and the books, so if you've only read the books (or only watched the series) and find discontinuities, here's why! I've also made Enola slightly older... You'll find out why in later chapters :P  
**

**I'm thinking of updating every week (Sat or Sun), since I already have the third chapter lined up, so... You can expect more from this :)  
However, I need some help with the plot (this is mainly for the book readers): Can anyone think of a _really good reason_ for Eudoria/Enola to run away? I have one, but it's not essentially _life-threatening_, so... Help? Please review! It helps me write XD**

**Thanks for reading!**


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